only real reason to get her name would be revenge, and I’m not interested in that. It wouldn’t make anyone forget the photo.
I’m just beginning to feel guilty about how I snapped at Sherlock when the bell rings. I wince. Should have left early. Now I’ll have to fight through the end-of-day rush to get to the doors. Maybe I’ll just stay down here until everyone’s gone.
But that doesn’t work either, because everyone who was in gym class bursts out into the hall, some still in their shorts. I shrink against the wall. Most buzz by without seeing me, but August Berthold and his friends don’t.
“Hey!” August crows when he spots me. He’s wearing a different polo. He probably carries a spare at all times. “It’s Nice Tits. Hey, Nice Tits, why don’t you give us a show? I heard it’s free.”
Sherlock would say something about the lack of creative nicknames in the world. But I’m not Sherlock. I hunch his shoulders and try walking away, like they tell you to, but someone grabs my wrist. The wrong one. Ow.
“Come on,” August coos. I’m inches away from his ugly rich boy face. I wish I was miles away. Eons. “Just a peek?”
“There you are, Irene.”
It’s Sherlock. Of course it is. He rounds the corner of the hallway, and our eyes meet. In the next second, he’s beside me. With one hand, he pulls me against his chest, and with the other, he wrenches August’s arm upwards.
What is happening?
“What the fu- uck .’ August’s voice gets reedy as Sherlock twists harder. His face is ice-granite. Inhuman. His eyes are glittering. One time I took personality test in a magazine that asked if I’d ever be willing to kill someone if I knew I wouldn’t get caught. Looking at his face, I know what he’d have picked.
“It’s that psycho,” someone behind us says, and anger rushes into me. Who’s the psycho?
Sherlock doesn’t relinquish his grip. “Tell me, August, because I’m curious—does this misdirected aggression stem from the fact that your childhood pet dog, Ringo, was run over by a car? Or is it the fact that you’re addicted to online porn and you’re used to seeing women as objects? Or perhaps it’s the fact that your parents are separated and you rarely see your mother. Is that why you’re harassing my girlfriend?”
Wait.
What?
“How the hell did you know that?” squeaks August.
“Girlfriend?” I say.
“I know many things,” Sherlock says terrifyingly, “including the fact that you’re never, ever going to bother Irene Adler again.”
“ Girlfriend ?” I repeat.
He pulls me closer. So close I can hear his heartbeat. More evidence against the heartless theory. Although bastard is still up for debate. “Yes, girlfriend. Irene Adler is my girlfriend. And if you don’t delete that photo of her from your computer—” He smiles. “I’ll know.”
“Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” August rubs his arm, possibly remembering that Sherlock is three to one when it comes to fights. “Come on, guys.”
“I’m not your girlfriend,” I say when they’re gone.
“I’m aware.”
“Good, because I just wanted to make it super clear that I’m not. Your girlfriend.”
“I’m aware . I thought I told you I loathe repetition.” He scowls. “Let me explain, because I’m not one of those people who doesn’t have reasons for the things I do. I’m helping you.”
“By pretending to be my boyfriend? Which you’re not?” I rub my wrist.
“Ethan’s girlfriend gave me the idea. She doesn’t want people to know you’re Ares because that would be so interesting, it would eclipse the photo. So I came up with something else interesting. Congratulations, Irene, you’re now dating the universally disliked but apparently attractive—people really need to refine their standards of beauty—new British student.” While he’s talking, he reaches out, briefly inspects my wrist, then lets it go. It’s so subtle that I almost don’t notice it happening.
“You
I’m just beginning to feel guilty about how I snapped at Sherlock when the bell rings. I wince. Should have left early. Now I’ll have to fight through the end-of-day rush to get to the doors. Maybe I’ll just stay down here until everyone’s gone.
But that doesn’t work either, because everyone who was in gym class bursts out into the hall, some still in their shorts. I shrink against the wall. Most buzz by without seeing me, but August Berthold and his friends don’t.
“Hey!” August crows when he spots me. He’s wearing a different polo. He probably carries a spare at all times. “It’s Nice Tits. Hey, Nice Tits, why don’t you give us a show? I heard it’s free.”
Sherlock would say something about the lack of creative nicknames in the world. But I’m not Sherlock. I hunch his shoulders and try walking away, like they tell you to, but someone grabs my wrist. The wrong one. Ow.
“Come on,” August coos. I’m inches away from his ugly rich boy face. I wish I was miles away. Eons. “Just a peek?”
“There you are, Irene.”
It’s Sherlock. Of course it is. He rounds the corner of the hallway, and our eyes meet. In the next second, he’s beside me. With one hand, he pulls me against his chest, and with the other, he wrenches August’s arm upwards.
What is happening?
“What the fu- uck .’ August’s voice gets reedy as Sherlock twists harder. His face is ice-granite. Inhuman. His eyes are glittering. One time I took personality test in a magazine that asked if I’d ever be willing to kill someone if I knew I wouldn’t get caught. Looking at his face, I know what he’d have picked.
“It’s that psycho,” someone behind us says, and anger rushes into me. Who’s the psycho?
Sherlock doesn’t relinquish his grip. “Tell me, August, because I’m curious—does this misdirected aggression stem from the fact that your childhood pet dog, Ringo, was run over by a car? Or is it the fact that you’re addicted to online porn and you’re used to seeing women as objects? Or perhaps it’s the fact that your parents are separated and you rarely see your mother. Is that why you’re harassing my girlfriend?”
Wait.
What?
“How the hell did you know that?” squeaks August.
“Girlfriend?” I say.
“I know many things,” Sherlock says terrifyingly, “including the fact that you’re never, ever going to bother Irene Adler again.”
“ Girlfriend ?” I repeat.
He pulls me closer. So close I can hear his heartbeat. More evidence against the heartless theory. Although bastard is still up for debate. “Yes, girlfriend. Irene Adler is my girlfriend. And if you don’t delete that photo of her from your computer—” He smiles. “I’ll know.”
“Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” August rubs his arm, possibly remembering that Sherlock is three to one when it comes to fights. “Come on, guys.”
“I’m not your girlfriend,” I say when they’re gone.
“I’m aware.”
“Good, because I just wanted to make it super clear that I’m not. Your girlfriend.”
“I’m aware . I thought I told you I loathe repetition.” He scowls. “Let me explain, because I’m not one of those people who doesn’t have reasons for the things I do. I’m helping you.”
“By pretending to be my boyfriend? Which you’re not?” I rub my wrist.
“Ethan’s girlfriend gave me the idea. She doesn’t want people to know you’re Ares because that would be so interesting, it would eclipse the photo. So I came up with something else interesting. Congratulations, Irene, you’re now dating the universally disliked but apparently attractive—people really need to refine their standards of beauty—new British student.” While he’s talking, he reaches out, briefly inspects my wrist, then lets it go. It’s so subtle that I almost don’t notice it happening.
“You
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